Point Me at Lost Islands
by Jessa7
Summary: John is guarded and protected more than he knows, but sometimes that just isn't enough. His world is blown apart by a madman, but put back together by someone entirely unexpected...spoilers for all episodes.
1. Point Me at Lost Islands

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in the public domain, but I claim no responsibilities for the wonders Gatiss and Moffat have created with the BBC version.

* * *

It starts slowly.

Actually, it starts with ringing telephones and surveillance cameras, but John tends to gloss over that bit because it's still one of the stranger things that's happened to him. So in John's mind, it starts slowly.

The crime scene is exhilarating and terrifying. The image of the woman in pink lying on the floor is burned in to the back of his eyelids and he is confused and amazed beyond belief at everything Sherlock does and says. His limp, of course, is still there as he walks towards the main street, cane in hand, jacket wrapped tightly around his body, and he is entirely unaware of the turning cameras. Dark eyes trace his movements through the streets of London.

The illusion of privacy is shattered when the phone rings.

'_Hello?' _

His voice is cautious, but not hostile, and he has no idea about what is about to happen.

'_Get in to the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you.'_

It is obvious the moment John realises what is happening. The expressionless, military mask falls firmly in to place and he holds himself tightly as the car pulls up alongside the curb. He doesn't hesitate, however, and climbs in through the opened door as the dark eyes watch on with interest.

For John, when he steps out of the car it's the first time they meet. For the gentleman, it's the first time they meet in the flesh, rather than pixels and light on a screen. There is immediately _something_: the heat of attraction and some kind of tension that he couldn't feel through the TV screen. John puts it down to his racing heart and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The man has no such thing to hide behind. Their conversation is tense, like they're testing each other, and John hasn't felt this alive since he came back from the war.

The man standing in front of him is controlled, the complete opposite of Sherlock and everything he's seen in the past few hours, and he is dangerous. The soft voice, the sharp, dark suit, the casual swinging of the blue umbrella - it screams danger, and John finds his pulse quickens with desire. And then he says:

'_I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen' _and '_Show me_' and it takes every inch of John's self control to hold his hand steady.

'_You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service._'

John very nearly gives himself away as those long fingers touch his skin. They're soft and warm against his wind-blown hands, and he fires words back, hides behind the out the man is giving him.

'_Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it._'

He's wrong, this man in front of him. He's wrong for the first time this evening, because John's hand isn't steady because of the battlefield and Sherlock Holmes. Oh no. His hand is steady because of this; because of the man holding it, warm against his skin, and because of litany of emotions currently running through his body; none of which are fear or stress.

Of course, the man turns out to be somebody entirely unexpected. He's still dangerous - of course he is - but that danger reduces the moment John finds out who he is. The problem is that that something - that attraction - doesn't reduce, and John finds that his pulse still quickens whenever he sees Mycroft Holmes.

At first, it's easy to deal with. Mycroft tends not to frequent 221B all that often, and in the few times he does, the air is so thick with animosity between the two brothers that John can't really feel anything himself anyway. Instead, he sits off to the side and watches. He pretends to himself that he's watching the conversation - the bickering - as it bounces back and forth, but the reality is that his gaze doesn't leave Mycroft for too long. He wonders if they notice. Knowing Sherlock, he does, but for some reason he declines to mention it. Mycroft is a different matter - an unknown entity - but John finds he doesn't care if he _does_ know.

There is a space of a couple of weeks when he doesn't see Mycroft at all. The days pass in a haze of night and day and colourful noise and John almost forgets about sharp suits and blue umbrellas. But then comes the case of Westy. All of a sudden Mycroft is there, in the front room of his flat, and John can barely breathe as the attraction rushes back full force.

The shock of the feeling fades, but the intensity is as sharp as ever, and as Mycroft and Sherlock bicker, and he moves to the window to catch his breath. His eyes alight on the ruins of the house opposite, and for a moment he forgets Mycroft as he thinks of what could have been - what, thankfully, didn't happen. He doesn't get much time before the older Holmes is back in his head. There's a question aimed at him, and John blinks.

'What?'

John turns back to the two men sitting on the chairs in front of him, and before he knows it, he's being handed a folder containing top secret information. Mycroft's smooth, deep voice rolls over him, and although John knows he should protest, there is a glimmer of amusement in the taller man's eyes, and John is helpless. Mycroft reaches out, shakes his hand and holds on for longer than he needs to; the warmth of his skin seeping into John's as he leans forward.

'Goodbye John. See you _very_ soon.'

* * *

The next time John sees Mycroft, he feels so stupid. There is nothing John can find out, nothing he can do that even remotely resembles what Sherlock does, and yet he finds himself dressed in his one suit that hasn't somehow borne the brunt of one of Sherlock's experiments, sitting in Mycroft's darkened office and asking questions. John is mostly thankful that Mycroft humours him. He lets him ask his questions and replies honestly, but there is a small part that wants Mycroft to call him on it, for him to ask John what he's doing, because this isn't him - he's a doctor, not a detective.

'_Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea; that is the question. And I was rather hoping Sherlock would find an answer to. How's he getting on?_'

John tries. Honestly, he tries, but Mycroft is sitting there, arms folded and legs crossed as he leans back against his desk, looking every inch like he doesn't believe a single word John is saying. Not for the first time, John curses Sherlock, as he stutters and stammers his way through an excuse.

He can't bear the weight of Mycroft's narrowed gaze and the sense of disappointment that makes his stomach clench, so he makes himself leave and walks home. There is a dull ache in his leg that hasn't been present for a while, and John doesn't want to think about why it's back; instead, he grits his teeth and limps on. He doesn't' notice the dark eyes that watch him leave, or the familiar black car that follows him home.

From then on, everything moves quickly.

The Westy Case is solved; the other case isn't. John suddenly has no time to think about anything other than the blow to the head that knocks him unconscious, and the madman talking at him while he's pushed and pulled in to a jacket made of Semtex in a swimming pool changing room. But then he's still, because his training has kicked in and he's found that unnatural calm, that strange ability of his to face whatever this is head on without flinching.

The madman, _Moriarty_, smiles coldly.

'It's rude to be greedy, Johnny-boy.' He says. John just stares at him, and then cocks his head slightly to the side.

'What do you mean?'

It's not so much a question - more of a demand for information - and Moriarty's gaze hardens.

'My my. A little slow on the uptake, aren't we? I do wonder what they see in you. But then…'

Moriarty steps closer, and a cool finger strokes down his cheek. John can't stop the shiver of revulsion that runs through his body as Moriarty's breath ghosts across his skin.

'I wonder how far I could push you.' He murmurs. 'I wonder how far you would bend before you broke. Do you think they'd still want you if you were broken?'

John has heard worse threats. He has been threatened with violence and torture and stood firm, but this man makes him scared. He has a cold insanity, and John knows his threats aren't empty.

'Did you know, John, how hard it was to get to you - how well you're guarded?'

Moriarty moves, circling him.

'Sherlock sees so much, it's hard to get around him, but Mycroft. Ohhh, Mycroft. He watches you like a hawk. Did you know that John? Have you felt his eyes on you? It's all rather… sweet.'

The last word is spat at him, and John flinches slightly, mind racing, but Moriarty doesn't see as he walks towards the door at the end of the room. A sickening smile twists his face, and John finds himself stumbling forward as one of Moriarty's men pushes him in the back.

'Now, Johnny-boy. You must do exactly as I tell you, say nothing else or…boom!'

And then John's walking through the door of the pool. The light is blue and flickering, and the look of betrayal on Sherlock's face is heartbreaking, but then everything changes as John pulls the parka open, revealing the coat of explosives.

It's all a blur and John can barely see past the coat of Semtex. Then it's gone, and there is a wholly new danger as Sherlock aims his gun at the explosives now lying on the floor.

It's funny, John reflects - he'd always thought that seeing your life flash before your eyes was a myth, but as he kneels there, he sees everything; he sees the war and Sherlock and Harry. He sees Mycroft.

And then the world explodes.

In one moment, the cool inside of the swimming pool detonates into a maelstrom of red and orange and pain. The sudden shock of cold envelopes him, and he can't breathe. John struggles against whatever is holding him under the water, twisting his arms and legs, head shaking as his lungs burn. His open eyes see the fire that sweeps across the top of the pool, and he feels the shockwaves as chunks of debris begin to fall from the ceiling.

He's survived the explosion; he doesn't think he can survive a falling building. He feels a sick sort of triumph as he feels the pressure and blinding pain in his side, and he sinks further down, pinned to the bottom. He opens his eyes, and the last thing he sees is Sherlock.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he's been like this. The world to him is a mass of shadowed voices - some he recognises, others he doesn't - but always there is someone at his side, whispering. He can't understand. He wishes he knew what they were saying, but when he reaches towards that deep, comforting voice, his quiet, calm world erupts into pain, and he sinks again. But he cries. He wants to be closer to that voice, he craves it… The voice is louder, soothing, and he calms and lets the dark drag him down.

* * *

John opens his eyes, flickering his eyelids against the harsh light. He feels strange, light-headed and sleepy, and he knows this feeling straight away. Morphine. Slowly, and calmly, John moves his toes, and his legs, his fingers and his arms. He hisses as his limbs protest at the movement, but he could weep with relief at the pain and ability to move his limbs.

It's only then that he looks around. He's in a private room and the curtains are closed - night time then - then he turns his head the other way, and stops, eyes fixed on the man sitting at his bedside.

Mycroft smiles slightly, and leans forward.

'Hello, John.'

John moves to talk, but his voice is nothing more than a rasping whisper. Mycroft picks a plastic cup of water up off the table, and holds it to John's mouth, allowing him to take small sips; wetting his throat. When he speaks, his voice is still rough, but he forces the words out.

'Mycroft. How long?'

'A week.' John closes his eyes briefly, and takes a deep breath. When he opens

them again, Mycroft is watching him intensely.

'Sherlock?'

'He's fine. He's on bed rest at my house. So naturally he's carrying out experiments. My housekeeper is keeping an eye on him.'

A wave of relief washes through John, and it leaves him feeling exhausted. He closes his eyes.

'Thank you, Mycroft.' He murmurs, and he feels Mycroft shift closer, feels the warmth press into his arm.

'What for?' Mycroft's voice is deep and soothing next to his ear, and it reminds John of something, but the memory is gone before he can hold on to it.

'For being here with me.' His words are slurring slightly, but as he slides towards sleep he feels the soft press of lips against his forehead, and he smiles.

When he wakes next, the world is less of a blur, but the pain is markedly more. His room is empty, and so he shifts in the bed, wincing as the movement jars the burns on his legs and the deep wound in his side, and he allows a grimaces to twist his lips.

The pain doesn't fade, but John focuses and pushes it aside for a moment as he tries to take in his surroundings in more detail. The room is large for a private room, and it's quiet, which is unusual. John has, he thinks, entirely too much experience of hospitals, but this is definitely the quietest he's been in. He can hear the hum of voices, and the soft patter of footsteps up and down the corridor outside, but it doesn't intrude. The pain flares, and he wishes it did, if only to give some distraction.

He shifts again, knowing he shouldn't but unable to stop himself, as he tries to move away from the pain, but it rushes through him again. His breath is becoming laboured and he can feel the beginnings of panic stir, but he can't stop moving.

There's a flare of agony in his side, sharper and deeper than the rest, and he gasps as he twists his fingers in the sheets. He knows that pain isn't good; he knows it means that he's burst the stitches and the flood of warmth on his skin confirms it. He's gasping for air now, unable to catch enough breath even to scream and the edge of his vision is blackening.

The pain is so overwhelming, so agonisingly deep and encompassing, that he barely hears the alarms on the heart-monitor sound. He doesn't see the door fly open and slam off the wall as doctors and nurses flood to his side. And he doesn't see the tall man, standing at the doorway, eyebrows drawn together and a blue umbrella clasped tightly in his hand.

Consciousness, it seems, is quite forceful when it wants to be. It reaches into your mind and dreams, and drags you up, towards the light. John struggles, because he remembers the pain and the terror pressing down on his chest the last time he was awake, and he dreads it. But consciousness cannot be denied, and he finds his eyes fluttering open.

He blinks rapidly against the harsh light in the hospital room, but this time everything is different. There is a tube down his throat, and no pain. His doctor-brain automatically fills in the reasons (probably shock and a particularly nasty post-traumatic seizure going by his last few moments of consciousness) and perversely he feels himself relax. When he turns his head to the side, he's surprised to see Mycroft, sitting in the same position as before, but this time he looks different.

It takes John a moment to figure out why, but then he realises that Mycroft is in the same suit as the last time John saw him, his shirt is rumpled and he looks _tired_.

John's mind immediately turns to Sherlock. His alarm must show on his face, and Mycroft is quick to lean forward, already knowing the cause for his concern.

'Sherlock is fine, John.' He murmurs, and reaches out his hand. Long fingers trace down John's cheek, and the doctor feels his heart flutter. Unfortunately, so does the machine, and it lets out a _bleep_ of alarm. John feels the heat rise to his face, but Mycroft just smiles slightly.

'You, John.' He says. Two words, but it's all John needs to know why Mycroft looks the way he does, and he leans in to the hand at his cheek. His eyes flicker shut, heavy with tiredness, and he drifts off to sleep again, knowing that Mycroft will be there when he wakes.

He's intubated only for a few days, and he coughs the tube from his throat with a grimace. He's sitting up in bed now, feeling less hazy with his lowered medication dose and the absence of Mycroft. The man has been at the hospital like clockwork - arriving when John wakes, leaving two hours later.

Today, however, he woke without Mycroft at his bedside. Instead, sitting curled up with her legs tucked under her body, is Harry. She is another regular visitor, although it's strange to think that this is what will bring their relationship back on track. She smiles when his eyes flicker open.

'Good morning, sleepy.' She teases gently, tucking her long blonde hair out of her face as she leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

'How are you feeling today?'

John smiles slightly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

'Better,' he admits, 'I feel like I can think clearly again. I dread to think how Sherlock's been getting on with medication.'

Harry grins. The last few days, the days since the breathing-tube was removed, have given the Watson siblings a chance to talk and reconnect, and Harry knows everything about Sherlock; just as John knows everything about Clara and the AA meetings.

'Has he been to visit you yet?'

John wrinkles his nose slightly.

'No. Apparently he can't stay in bed long enough for the cut on his leg to heal. Mycroft has forbidden him to leave the house until it stops reopening.'

Harry's eyes brighten when John mentions Mycroft. John has been subtle, saying nothing of the very different circumstances he's found with Mycroft since waking up, but Harry can tell something is up, and her smile turns mischievous.

'And has _Mycroft_ been in to see you?' She asks, laughing as John feels the heat rush to his face, making him blush like only Harry ever could. He's missed this; the playful side to his sister and the relationship they used to have before the drinking started. Harry is still giggling when the noise of a throat being cleared comes from the doorway, and John closes his eyes in mortification.

Harry, however, is delighted.

'You must be Mycroft.' She announces, deducing in a very Holmesian way. The man himself smiles back at her infectious mood.

'And you must be Harriet. Harry.' He corrects himself straight away as her eyes narrow playfully.

Harry throws John a look, then smiles disarmingly at Mycroft.

'We were just talking about you.'

John just groans, and Mycroft laughs.

'I heard.'

John finds himself wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. Instead, he opts for the next best thing, and sinks carefully down in his bed, and pulling a pillow across his face. He immediately thinks better of it, and pulls the pillow away, only to be met with a horrifying sight - Harry, taking down Mycroft's number and promising coffee. It's almost enough to make him wish he hadn't survived. But only almost. Not quite.

'Hello, Mycroft.' He says instead, and is rewarded with that smile turning in his direction.

'Good morning John. You're feeling better.' The words are a statement, not a question, and his voice is the softest John has ever heard. They look at each other for a moment, before the moment is broken by Harry shuffling her feet.

'I'm going to go.' She states, and grabs her bag and coat from the chair. John starts to protest, but she holds up a hand and smiles.

'I'll be back tomorrow. I have to go and see Clara.' John quiets at this, and nods. Harry darts to his bedside and leans over, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear; 'Good catch, Johnny,' and then she's gone with a smile at Mycroft, leaving John blushing in her wake.

Mycroft moves towards the bed, and sits in the chair at the bedside. John watches him for a moment, wondering how he could have read him so wrong at the beginning because this man is both everything and nothing that John thought he wanted. Mycroft looks up.

'I have a rather pleasant surprise for you.'

'Sherlock has managed to stay in bed for a night?' John asks, more out of needless hope than actually belief. Mycroft laughs.

'No, I don't believe that will ever happen.' He replies, and John silently agrees. 'No, not that. You're going to be discharged tomorrow.'

The news is a surprise, and John raises his eyebrows. He had thought he was still at least one week from being released, not one day, and although the news is welcome - _very_ welcome because he hates hospitals - he finds his stomach twists slightly in apprehension. His emotions must show on his face, because Mycroft leans forward.

'John?' He asks, voice questioning concerned. John just shakes his head, and smiles; it's mostly genuine.

'Wonderful. I'll ask Harry to help me back to Baker Street.' But Mycroft is shaking his head before he even finishes his sentence.

No, John. Sherlock is not moving from my house until I am sure he won't damage himself further, and that is where you'll be staying as well.'

John feels a twist of irritation at the instructing tone, but he pushes it down hard, because he has a niggling suspicion that the only reason he's being released is because of Mycroft.

'John.' He looks up from his fingers twisting in the bed sheets and into Mycroft's unwavering gaze. The look is all he needs, and he sighs and nods, because Mycroft seems to have some hold over him. John thinks he imagines the soft exhale, and breathed _thank you_, but he knows he doesn't imagine those fingers as they trace down his face.

John closes his eyes and leans in to the touch, his breath shaking and uneven as the fingers map his skin. Then they're gone, but there's the rustle of cloth and the soft rush of air on his face and John stops breathing altogether as lips press against his own. They're still for a moment, but then Mycroft moves and John gasps into him, his hand moving to touch cautiously at the warm skin above him.

The kiss ends all too soon, but Mycroft doesn't move away. John opens his eyes and looks up into those above him, darkened with emotion and he reaches a hand out to touch his cheek. They stay like that for a minute more, and then Mycroft shifts. He presses a kiss to John's forehead and moves away, his hand closing around the umbrella propped up against the bedside table.

'I have a lot to prepare.' He murmurs at John's questioning look, because he's only been there twenty minutes or so.

'I'll be here as normal tomorrow.' He smiles warmly, and then is gone; footsteps tapping away down the corridor, and John is left stunned.

* * *

It takes effort and a lot of strength to move John to Mycroft's house. John has been dosed up on painkillers, but his injuries are still painful; the burns on his legs pull under their bandages, the long cut on his head throbs, and the wound in his side still aches deeply inside, but he is determined to leave the hospital. He holds on tightly to the porters as they move him to the wheelchair.

John is breathing hard, but he's controlled as his hands clench in to fists in his lap. The transfer from the wheelchair to the car that is taking him to Mycroft's house is harder, and his vision swims as he finally leans against the back of the seats in the car.

John has seen Mycroft's expression as he was moved from the chair to the car; he's seen the tightening of skin around his eyes and the way that his knuckles have turned white as he grips his umbrella. John flashes him a tired grin as the man ducks in to the car through the opposite door, and once again those long, warm fingers trail down his face. Mycroft's voice is deep and soothing as he speaks.

'Relax. It'll be a while before we arrive.' The fingers dancing across his skin still, and the palm of Mycroft's rests for a moment on his head before moving away. John keeps his eyes closed, and feels himself drifting as the gentle rock of the car sends him to sleep.


	2. Point Me at the Sea

Thanks for the reviews guys. This is cross posted from LJ, full story is already up over there (username Lisson17)

* * *

Sherlock is bouncing off the walls when they arrive. Palmer House is in Mayfair, and it's big; as big as John knew it would be, but he's too tired and seeing the world through a pain-haze to appreciate the grace and grandeur. He struggles up the steps to the front door. He barely hears Sherlock's questions and statements, and then suddenly the world goes hazy, and it tilts alarmingly.

He's waiting for an impact, but it never comes. Instead, he feels warm, surprisingly strong arms wrap around him and carefully pull him close. For the moment, Sherlock is amazingly quiet, and as the world rocks as Mycroft carries him to a bedroom somewhere in the depths of the house, soft footsteps pad behind them.

The cool sheets of the bed on John's back are a blessing in disguise, and he works to control the remaining shivers out of his breathing. Both Holmes brothers stay in the room, and when John is finally relaxed enough, he opens his eyes. He searches out Sherlock straight away, because as much as he knows Mycroft wouldn't lie to him about his brother's health, seeing is something entirely different to being told.

Mycroft, of course, knows exactly what he's doing, and coughs slightly to hide his smile. Sherlock, however, frowns.

'I thought you were better.' He says, tone accusing. 'I thought you were being released from the hospital because you were better. You're not better.'

Mycroft coughs again, and John grins wryly.

'This _is_ better, Sherlock. You should have seen me two weeks ago.'

Mycroft loses his smile, and Sherlock's frown deepens. This time, it's directed at Mycroft.

'You told me he was okay.'

The statement is flat, but John knows Sherlock well, and he can hear the concern so well hidden. So, it seems, can Mycroft.

'I told you he would _be_ okay, Sherlock. John caught a lot more of the explosion than you did. It will take time for him to recover completely.'

The atmosphere in the room has turned decidedly cold at the mention of the explosion, and John shivers slightly. He has gone over the scenario in his head many times in the long, painful nights at the hospital, and although he has come to terms with what happened, he still feels the icy shiver that races down his spine at the mere mention of the incident that put him in hospital.

The conversation, apparently, has died, and Sherlock leaves the room. He's back barely a minute later, limping on his right leg and carrying his laptop. He settles in the chair on the far side of the room near the window without a word and starts tapping away.

John stares at him for a moment, then bites his lip and turns to Mycroft, who doesn't look surprised at all. It seems, in fact, that neither brother is going anywhere and Mycroft sits in the chair next to John's bed. It's very like the set-up at the hospital, but John finds he doesn't mind as a hand stretches out and captures his own.

Mycroft's other hand presses a small button on the wall, and he turns to John.

'Tea?'

John nods, as does Sherlock from across the room, and when a woman appears in the doorway, the button makes a little more sense.

'Tea, please Kate. And some soup for Doctor Watson.' The woman nods, and then disappears again. Mycroft turns back to John.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade will be around tomorrow.' He says, voice low.

'I've put him off seeing you in the hospital, but he's taken Sherlock's statement, and he needs one from you too.'

John tightens his fingers around Mycroft's, and feels his hand squeezed in return, but he nods rigidly.

'Of course. I had wondered why no one had been to talk to me.' His voice is flat, and he's caught up in his thoughts; he misses the look Sherlock throws his way. The detective narrows his eyes, then turns his gaze to Mycroft, and raises his eyebrows, motioning with his head towards the doctor. Mycroft narrows his eyes back at his brother in return.

'John, if you wish it, I will be there with you the entire time ' He murmurs. John looks up, pulled away from his thoughts, and he smiles slightly.

'Thank you, Mycroft.' He replies, and feels the long caress of Mycroft's thumb against his hand. Neither of them sees Sherlock roll his eyes in the background, but it doesn't matter, because the quiet is broken by the rustle of cloth, and the clink of china as Kate walks carefully in to the room and sets a fully-laden tray down on the table.

There is a swing-out table for the bed, and John doesn't even want to know where Mycroft got one of them, so instead he rolls his eyes as the bowl of soup and a perfectly prepared cup of tea are placed in front of him, as well as a colourful array of medication and a glass of water.

John eyes the tablets in disgust, before picking up the spoon and stirring the steaming coup gently; chicken, for some reason John finds it amusing that Mycroft sticks to chicken soup for the ill. John brings the spoon to his lips anyway, and he closes his eyes in bliss as flavour explodes on his tongue for the first time in weeks.

Hospital food had contained all of the nutrients that he'd needed over the past few weeks, but it _really_ hadn't tasted of anything in particular, and the soup is heaven in comparison. He swallows the mouthful, then eagerly spoons up more. It's not long before he's full and he closes his eyes briefly in satisfaction. When he opens them, a pair of dark ones are trained on him - or rather are trained on his mouth - and John grins. Mycroft's gaze snaps up to meet John's, no hint of embarrassment on his face, but a small smile twitches his lips.

'Sherlock.'

Mycroft's voice is quiet, and his eyes never leave John's, but the detective has hearing like nothing John had ever seen, and he looks up. His expression immediately creases with disgust. With a small huff of breath, Sherlock grabs his laptop, leaps from his chair, and stalks to the door.

'I'll be back in half an hour.' He warns. 'And Mycroft…'

His voice trails off, expression uneasy with concern, and Mycroft looks away from John's face to look at his brother.

'I know.' He says softly, and with that Sherlock is gone from the room.

John raises his eyes at Mycroft, who shakes his head slightly in reply.

'Sherlock is being overly concerned.' He says in response to the question John

didn't ask. 'I, personally, don't have the energy for that kind of activity.'

His meaning is fairly clear, and a faint blush warms John's cheeks, but his thoughts quickly change as Mycroft leans forward and twists the bed-table away and looks at him, eyes intent.

'John.'

For once, the man is lost for words, and John finds himself taking the lead. With a small tug, he pulls Mycroft closer and kisses him.

There is a rush of feeling that John is sure he will never get used to at the press of Mycroft's lips against his, and he pulls in his breath sharply. It's a small sound, but one that makes Mycroft pause slightly as he assesses the cause.

Impatient, John just pulls him forward, and Mycroft doesn't protest; instead he pushes himself carefully closer, and deepens the kiss. It's gentle, and controlled, because Mycroft knows how breakable John is at the moment, but there is a hint of something desperate underneath, as he presses down on John's tongue with his own.

The desperation becomes more obvious as Mycroft's carefully crafted control slips slightly and John gasps as long fingers wind into his hair and scrape over his scalp. There is an ache in John's side, but he doesn't care and he pushes himself up, pushes himself so deeply in Mycroft's warmth that he doesn't know how he will ever be able to pull himself away.

Then those long fingers dance over the healing cut on John's head, and instantly the kiss slows and John can feel the control sliding back into place. Mycroft breaks the contact but he doesn't move away. His breath hot and fast against the doctor's mouth as he rests his forehead against John's.

'I'm sorry, John. My judgement…'

The words are spoken softly, but there is a hopelessness laced through Mycroft's voice that makes John's stomach tighten in anticipation. When he's better, John thinks, this will be incredible. He smiles, eyes flickering open and looking up at the man above him.

'It's fine. I just wish you hadn't stopped.'

The dark eyes hide nothing of the desire and hastily re-assembled self-control, and Mycroft's lips curve slightly.

'As do I.'

They stay like this for a minute or two more, pressed together, as their breathing calms and slows. Finally, Mycroft pulls away and sits back in the chair. John feels the loss of heat like a physical blow, and his distaste for their separation must show on his face, because Mycroft laughs, soft and deep.

'Patience, my dear John. We have all the time in the world.'

The words send a thrill down John's spine and his eyes narrow.

'I'm holding you to that.' He says, and Mycroft laughs again.

'Believe me, as soon as you are well again…' He lets the words trail off, and his eyes flicker across John's body. John feels himself tighten and he groans.

'Please don't do that when you won't follow through.' He says.

Mycroft just smiles, but the moment is broken when the door to the room is pushed open. Sherlock drifts in, eyes fixed firmly on the window as he makes his way across the room. Mycroft frowns.

'That was not half-an-hour.' He states. 'Do I need to teach you how to tell the time again?'

Sherlock glares at his laptop but doesn't reply, and Mycroft sighs. John flashes him a small smile, then yawns widely.

'Sorry, sorry.'

Mycroft waves away his apology.

'Sleep, John. It'll help you recover, and the sooner you recover…well, you know the rest of that sentence.'

Sherlock makes a noise of disgust from his chair by the window, but John just grins. He yawns again, then carefully shuffles himself further down the bed. Mycroft moves one of the pillows, allowing John to lie down, resting his head on the other, and as soon as he does, he feels his eyes grow heavier. They flutter shut as he feels those now-familiar fingers dance lines down his face.

'Sleep well, I'll be here when you wake.'

* * *

Mycroft sits back as John's breathing evens out, the tips of his fingers still warm from the skin on John's cheek.

He isn't one for reflection, but as he sits, he struggles to believe that they're actually here. He saw John as they pulled him from the rubble of the swimming pool, he saw the blood as it flowed from wounds from his head and his side and his legs, and he saw the convulsing body as John coughs up an endless flood of chlorinated water.

The doctors had restarted his heart twice as Mycroft had watched through the window, umbrella clasped tightly in his hand as he had dealt with the unfamiliar feeling of being helpless; torture after being in control for his whole life.

But John had fought back, and he'd stabilised, but he'd drifted into a coma, and Mycroft had had to deal with the powerlessness for another week. It had been the most awful week of his life, and looking after a bored Sherlock had certainly not helped anything.

The funny thing, Mycroft thinks as he watches John's chest rise and fall, is that he hadn't even known what he was feeling. It had taken an explosion and for John to almost lose his life before that feeling in his chest had snapped into place, and now it was there, it wasn't going anywhere.

He can feel it expanding in his chest with each breath, with every moment that passes, and he revels in it.

Mycroft doesn't know how much time passes as he sits and watches John Watson breathe, but when he looks up again, the sky is dark, and the only light in the room comes from Sherlock's laptop screen. He blinks, and grimaces slightly as his body protests at the sudden movements after hours of sitting still.

The room is quiet, the silence only punctuated by the soft breathing of John and Sherlock. Mycroft raises his eyebrows as he realises that Sherlock is sleeping, voluntarily, for the first time since the explosion, but then his eyes drift back to John.

This doctor demands such attention, such _emotion_, from those around him. He never thought he'd see the day when Sherlock cared this much for any other person. Even Mycroft himself hadn't earned that level of dedication and emotion. He had always been perfectly content to have his work and nothing else, and he'd had no idea when John had limped into their lives, battle scarred and broken, that his life would shift so alarmingly.

His eyes flash to John's face as the doctor shifts in his sleep, and a small sound escapes his lips, then another, and another.

'No!' The word is shouted, and John arches his back from the bed. Mycroft moves, and reaches out almost instinctually, placing his hands either side of the doctor's face.

'John.' He murmurs.

John quietens almost immediately, his face relaxing as he settles back into a dreamless sleep. Mycroft's hands drop from John's face, but he craves contact and so he links his fingers through John's as he leans back in his chair.

He sighs softly in the darkened room. It will be a long time yet before John wakes, and he can feel the long nights of uncertain sleep during the last few weeks catching up with him. He lets his eyes drift shut, taking comfort from the knowledge that John is there, and safe, and well.

* * *

When John wakes, he can tell the time from the light that slants in through the window. It's too bright to be early morning, but the angle is wrong for it to be afternoon. It's a trick he learned from his time in Afghanistan, when his watch was inevitably always full of sand and the only way they had of telling the time was by looking at the sun.

It's nice, he thinks, to wake somewhere where the walls aren't a fake, sterile white, and the room doesn't smell of illness and antiseptic. Instead, he's awoken to the soft snores of Mycroft, slumped uncomfortable in the chair beside his bed, and the quiet tapping of Sherlock as he types unbelievably quickly at his laptop.

'How are feeling today, John?'

The question is unexpected, not least because it's coming from Sherlock, and John has to blink a few times before he can answer.

'Much better, thanks.'

Sherlock looks up, away from his computer, and his eyes are bright.

'So it won't be long until we can move back home. That's good. Very good.'

John winces slightly as he shifts in the bed and it pulls at the wound in his side, but he nods all the same.

'Of course, Sherlock.'

The detective's eyes are still locked on John, and he frowns. He opens his mouth, clearly intending to question John's obvious reluctance, but a deeper voice sounds instead, and John finds himself turning quickly to look at the man in the chair next to him.

'I think John may be here a while yet, Sherlock. I believe I discussed this with you yesterday.'

Mycroft's tone is full of warning and reproach, and Sherlock's frown deepens to the point where John thinks he just looks petulant. He sighs slightly, then catches Mycroft's gaze and smiles.

Mycroft's answering smile is slow and warm, and he leans forward to press a soft kiss on John's mouth.

'Good morning.'

John sighs in to the kiss, and has to make a concerted effort to not protest when Mycroft moves away.

'Good morning,' he replies, but the protest is evident in his voice, and Mycroft laughs a little, before pressing another kiss to his lips.

'Do you have to do that whilst I'm in the room?' Sherlock grumbles from the chair by the window, and John sees Mycroft grit his teeth before replying.

'You don't have to be in here, Sherlock.'

Sherlock looks up from his laptop with a glare.

'Yes I do,' he shoots back, 'because I need John to figure this out, and because of you I haven't been able to see him until now. He was my flatmate first. You do not get to monopolise his attention!'

'I have told you, Sherlock, that I have that under control. There is no need for you to exert yourself in a fruitless investigation in a fit of petty revenge.'

Sherlock's eyes narrow in a way that John knows well. It is the look that says that someone, usually Anderson or Lestrade, has said something extraordinarily stupid.

'Petty revenge?' He spits. 'This is petty revenge? How can you, of all people, call this petty? You are going to let him get away with this!'

Mycroft is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft and dangerous and his eyes don't leave John's face.

'He will not get away with this, Sherlock. I can promise you that.'

Sherlock, for once, doesn't have a response and he stares at his laptop for a long moment.

'I can't do nothing.' He murmurs in to the silence, and Mycroft closes his eyes.

'I know, Sherlock. Just… try to take it easy?'

There's another long pause, and then Sherlock nods reluctantly. Eyes downcast, he snaps his laptop shut and walks smoothly from the room, pausing only to look at John once more before pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

Neither man speaks for a long time, but for different reasons. John is caught up in the memories of that night; the terror and the pain as the debris hit him, and the sense of utter helplessness and weakness that he'd felt as he'd woken up in the clutches of a psychotic madman. For Mycroft, he is silent because he is struggling; the mere mention of Moriarty brings a horrendous, burning rage that fills him, making him want to lash out; to find that bastard and bring him to his knees.

It is only when Mycroft feels that the twisting anger in the pit of his stomach is under control that he speaks.

'I thought we might try walking a little today.' His voice is calm and controlled, and it startles John away from the memories of the explosion. He nods, his doctor-side knowing that he must keep moving through the pain.

'Sounds like a good idea.'

His smile is weak, but it's there, and Mycroft smiles back, before his face turns serious and he leans forward and John closes his eyes as there is the familiar feeling of long fingers tracing across his cheek.

'I meant it, John.' His voice is low and intense, and when John opens his eyes and looks into Mycroft's face, his expression is full of the same intensity.

'I will not let Moriarty get away with this. No one hurts you, or Sherlock, and gets away with it. He will suffer.'

The words are clear and direct, and John can see the stark honesty in Mycroft's face, and he nods slowly as he catches the fingers dancing across his skin in his hand and holds them still.

'I know.' He replies, reaching out with his other hand, and cupping Mycroft's cheek. 'I know.'

* * *

John grows stronger as each day passes. His injuries are checked daily by the best doctor Mycroft knows, and he feels the pain lessen as his movement increases.

For John, it's both a curse and a blessing. It's a blessing because he can move again, after weeks of lying in a bed unable to do anything for himself. It is akin to regaining his freedom. But it is a curse because Sherlock has finally gotten his way. They are returning to 221B and John cannot help but feel torn between his flatmate and friend, and his budding relationship with Mycroft.

Sherlock, for all his brilliance and ability to spot the tiniest detail, doesn't notice John's indecision; instead he bounces around like an over-active child, directing Mycroft's men as they carry bags to the car waiting by the door.

John watches from the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, breath turning to fog as he breathes slowly in-and-out. He can't go back to the way things were before…well, just _before_. He can't go back to the endlessly long sleepless nights and the cold loneliness as Sherlock bounds from a crime scene and leaves him behind.

And yet…

He remembers the thrill as Sherlock solves another case, and as another person is saved. He remembers the adrenaline; that fierce rush through his veins as he follows Sherlock into danger and as they inevitably find their way back from the edge.

But there is the problem: right there. Because everything changed with the madman; when John almost didn't come back from the edge. Before, when it had been Afghanistan, it didn't matter so much. John had had the army, and that was it. He'd had no relationship with Harry, and no wife or girlfriend or partner; no one who cared.

Now he has Harry back from deep recesses of her alcohol-fuelled mind, and he has a brilliant and wonderfully strange flatmate. He has Mycroft. Suddenly the risks just aren't as attractive anymore.

A warm hand on his elbow startles John out of his thoughts, and he looks up in to dark eyes.

'I don't have to go.' He whispers, but even to his own ears, his words sound hollow, and Mycroft shakes his head slowly.

'You do.' The words sound abrupt, and John's breath catches as he turns, already moving away and towards the door.

'Of course. I'll just get my bag.'

The hand on his elbow doesn't let go as John shifts, but he doesn't look back; afraid that Mycroft will see the devastating effect those two words have had on him.

'John.' Mycroft chides softly. 'I don't mean it like that. I am as much opposed to you leaving as you are.'

Warm fingers slide under John's chin and press up, tilting his head and forcing him to meet Mycroft's gaze.

'You can't escape from me that easily, John.' His voice is deep and smooth, and John feels the sudden tension roll from his body as he relaxes.

'I am _never_ letting you leave my sight again.'

Before John can even begin to contemplate what that means, Mycroft dips his head and kisses him. It starts slowly, and softly, but then Mycroft is both pulling him forward until he is flush against him, and pushing him backwards until his back hits the wall and John gasps.

As John has gotten better, so the kisses have progressed from the innocent to the type that leave him gasping for more, but this is something completely different. Mycroft presses John into the wall and proceeds to kiss him until his legs feel like they can't keep him standing.

John wraps one arm around Mycroft's neck, dragging him down and deeper into the kiss, whilst his other hand clutches desperately at Mycroft's suit-jacket. They part briefly, and John drags in a lungful of air before crushing his mouth against Mycroft's again.

It's all quickly sliding out of control; their snatched gasps of air are loud and rushed, and John's finding it harder and harder to focus - to think why this could be a bad idea right now. Instead, he's pulling Mycroft harder against his body, and twisting his hips until he drags a low moan from the man against him.

It's that moan, however, that slams John back down to reason, and he pulls his mouth back from Mycroft's with a groan of regret, and reluctance weighing so heavy in his stomach that it's painful.

It's a rare thing though, John reflects as Mycroft rests his forehead against his own, eyes closed, to beat Mycroft Holmes at self-control. He huffs a laugh against the other man's lips.

'John.' Mycroft's voice is wrecked, and John just smiles slightly.

'Wrong time, wrong place. I know.'

Mycroft quirks his lips slightly, but when he opens his eyes, his expression is serious.

'I _want_ you to stay here. Sherlock _needs_ you to return to 221B. I will not, however, abandon you to his every whim. I will not stand by and catch minutes of your time as you bound from case to case. _You are mine.' _

The words are hissed against John's lips, and he can't stop the shiver of pure _want_ that runs down his spine at the possessiveness of Mycroft's words and tone. He reaches up, perfectly intent on ignoring his self-control and pulling the other man into a kiss, but an exclamation of disgust from the doorway halts him in his tracks.

'Must you do that in public?'

The question is vaguely childish; akin to a child finding his parents kissing, and John finds the attitude annoying.

'Must you be so obtuse?' He shoots back although he immediately regrets lowering himself to Sherlock's level, and the detective glares at him from the doorway.

'The car is ready.' He announces, then turns and stalks from the doorway.

John groans, and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

''Needs'. _Really?_'

Mycroft lets a small smile cross his lips.

'Really.'

He steps back, and pulls John away from the wall.

'Come on. We mustn't keep him waiting.'

John shakes his head, but follows as Mycroft heads out of the room and down the long corridor towards the stairs.

* * *

Please RnR guys, I do love reviews :-) Final chapter will be up tomorrow.


	3. The Sound of Nothing Else but You

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

* * *

From the outside, life goes back to normal at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock is out solving cases, sometimes taking John with him, other times not. Most of the time, John finds his days are spent back at the busy morgues and teaching rooms off Barts, and it's something he finds he enjoys so much more than he thought he would.

Then there are the differences:

There are the cameras; small and supposedly un-noticeable, except for the fact that John knows they're there and he sees them watching out of the corner of his eye. They're in the house, and on the streets, and at the hospital, and they should be intrusive, but John can't feel the anger or irritation that he would have before Moriarty.

There are the people; they blend in seamlessly, changing faces with their shifts and John doesn't recognise any of them, but he's never alone in the street, or at work, or in the supermarket.

There is a woman at work. She started just before John, filling a vacancy that wasn't there. John knows why she's there, and she knows that John knows, but they don't talk about it. They talk about the weather, and the rugby results from the weekend, and the tube strike that causes chaos throughout London.

There is Mycroft.

He keeps his word; never allowing more than a day to pass without taking John away for his lunch break during the week, or pressing him up against the wall at Palmer House and stealing his breath with deep, intense kisses.

John never feels crowded; he never feels pressured, or uncomfortable, but he does feel the hold Mycroft has on him. He feels the possession in the way Mycroft's fingers push into his hips; the way Mycroft tilts his head, angling his mouth and his lips and pressing until John can barely breathe without him.

It's different, John muses as he walks through the almost empty corridors at Barts. Different because he is normally the instigator; he is used to the chasing - booking tables at romantic restaurants, arranging dates to the cinemas, reaching out and holding hands as his date smiles shyly up at him.

John is used to being the protector. He has been raised a gentleman, he has been trained to be both killer and healer, but now he is being protected. No one speaks to him, or looks at him or walks past him in the street with Mycroft knowing, and John wonders how much time has to pass before the fear and the protectiveness the older Holmes brother feels fades to a normal level.

Lost in his thoughts as he turns a corner, John feels the breath leave his body in a rush as fingers circle his wrist and pull him through an open doorway. Before he can even protest, the door is closed behind him, and he's pushed against it. His head is tilted back and a mouth presses down on his own.

Any sound of surprise is immediately forgotten, as familiar lips move against his. Instead, John moves his hands to entangle themselves in dark hair, and he pushes himself up into the kiss, a small moan dragged from his mouth as they part briefly for air.

The kiss is deep and hard, and John can feel some kind of desperation in the way Mycroft's hands pass over his body, in the way Mycroft pushes John harder into the closed door.

It's a long time, John's lost count of exactly how many minutes, until Mycroft finally breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against John's as they both gasp for breath. It's a further few minutes more until John feels he's able to speak.

'What was that for?' He asks, clearing his throat as his voice shakes. Mycroft smiles briefly at the evidence of the effect he has on the doctor, but then his smile fades and he closes his eyes.

'No reason, John.' His tone is calm and sure, but it doesn't convince John, who frowns up at him.

'No,' he says slowly, pushing Mycroft away from him gently. 'No. You can't hide things from me, Mycroft. That's not fair. What's happened?'

Mycroft looks at him for a moment, face expressionless, but then he sighs.

'We caught four men this morning. Two followed Sherlock, tried to use a taser on him.' Mycroft's distaste of the choice of weapon is obvious, but John presses him for the more important details.

'Is he ok?'

'Of course. He has a few bruises, but he has endured worse.'

John watches Mycroft for a moment as the other man moves to the window, the silence dragging. It doesn't make much sense so far, and John knows there is more.

'Mycroft.'

It only takes one word. Mycroft bows his head, and takes a deep breath. His fists clench in a conscious effort to calm himself down.

'The other two men followed you here this morning. We intercepted them before they got to you, but…'

The pause is an unhappy one, and John knows why.

'They got through your surveillance.' He says. It's a statement, not a question, and his voice is calmer than he feels.

'Yes.'

The word is clipped, and Mycroft flexes his fingers angrily.

'And you don't know how.'

'No.'

John sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

'Where are we going?'

Mycroft turns, and in two long strides he is standing in front of John, hands cupping his face.

'I have to keep you safe, John.' His voice is intense and distressed, and he is as frantic as John has ever seen him. John reaches up and clasps Mycroft's hands in his own.

'I know.' He replies.

He holds Mycroft's gaze steady with his own, his expression as calm and clear as he can make it, but it barely works and Mycroft's fingertips are dancing restlessly over John's skin and through his hair.

'I have a car outside. It's going to take you to a safe house until I can stop him.'

He doesn't say a name, but John knows who he means.

'You're not coming.' He states. Mycroft presses his forehead to John's, eyes squeezed shut and he takes a deep breath, making a concerted effort to calm himself.

'I can't, John. He needs to be stopped, and if I leave now that will never happen. But I need you to be safe. I can't do anything if you're not safe.'

'Sherlock?'

Mycroft's mouth twists.

'I cannot send him away, and if I'm truthful I could use his help. He knows Moriarty's mind, he _thinks_ like him. I can keep him safe with me, but I can't _think_ clearly if you're there.'

John smiles slightly, watching as Mycroft pauses, takes a deep breath and pulls away. He opens the door, speaking quickly to someone standing outside, someone John hadn't even realised was there. The conversation is short and low and John can't hear what the men are saying, but then Mycroft steps back and

looks at John.

'Samuel will take you to the safe house,' he says, and John drags his gaze from Mycroft's face to nod at the man standing in the doorway. He's pretty non-descript; dressed in a suit with his dark hair cut short; someone John wouldn't look twice at if he passed him in the street, but he has no doubt that this man is deadly.

There has been a shift in the atmosphere, and John knows it's his cue to leave. His heart is racing in his chest, but his hands are steady and he takes a calm breath. He walks to the door, and pauses for a moment. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mycroft beats him to it.

'Not until this is finished.' Mycroft answers the question John hasn't asked. The words are expected, but unwanted and suddenly he finds it a little harder to breathe. He has seen Mycroft every day for the past three months; the thought that he won't see him for an undetermined amount of time rebels in his mind, but Samuel is suddenly blocking his view of Mycroft and he's herded towards the door at the end of the hallway. He catches one last sight of Mycroft, standing with the blue umbrella in his hand, and then he's gone.

The waiting car is black and ordinary, and he's pushed into the backseat. London passes in a blur as John sits and tries to catch his breath. The past hour has been an unreal blur, and John has suddenly found his life turned upside down yet again. He fights the wave of despair that tries to drag him under, focusing his eyes on the fading, flickering light through the passing trees.

He hasn't been told where he's going, but as the walls of concrete and brick transform into leaves and bark and endless fields, and the light fades to black, John leans his head back and closes his eyes.

* * *

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. Time passes with John barely recognising it. The village he has been taken to is tiny and remote, and he thinks somewhere in the Peak District, although he doesn't know for certain. He buys food from the small shop a mile down the winding track, talks briefly to the locals, and walks deep into the countryside, stalked by a protective shadow. He has memorised the area like the back of his hand; the shallow, bubbling stream, the lone trees and bushes and the jagged remains of ancient buildings and walls.

Late summer has turned to winter, and the cold creeps through the cracks in the doors and windows. The landscape is bleak and empty and it reflects how John feels now.

It has been so long since he's seen Mycroft and Sherlock, John thinks he's forgotten what they look like. Some nights, cold and almost alone, John wonders if they ever existed; if his whole life in London was a figment of his starved imagination.

There has been no news; no hint of anything involving Sherlock, or Mycroft, or Moriarty, and John can't remember the last time he spoke their names. He shakes his head, trying to shake away the thoughts of a life so far in the past, and picks his way carefully across the precarious landscape

It's foolish, and John doesn't know why he's done it, but it's very early morning and Samuel still sleeps in the cottage back up the hillside. It's been so long since he's been truly by himself, and John breathes deeply in the freezing, crisp morning air, gaze alternating between the rocky ground under his feet and the clear pink sky above his head.

_Pink sky at night; Shepherd's delight. Pink sky in the morning; Shepherd's warning._

The old saying pops into John's head, and for a moment he pauses, although he's not sure why. There is a flicker of unease in the back of his mind, and for the first time since he arrived in Upper Midhope, John has the sense that something is very wrong.

He turns, intending to head back to the cottage, but his gaze is caught by a smudge of black a way down the hill. For a moment he thinks it's Samuel, but the reassurance is brief. John has been living with Samuel for months and he knows the way the man moves; the figure slowly climbing his way up the hillside is not him.

For a second, John can't move. It's been so long since he's needed to think quickly and clearly, and it takes a moment for his brain to kick-start, but then it does, and he's moving. He's careful to walk quickly, but to appear unhurried, but then his foot catches and he stumbles, catching his wrist on the jagged rock.

The cut is small, but deep and the blood is already flowing between his fingers as he presses his hand to his wrist. Cursing, he hurries to his feet, risking a glance over his shoulder. The figure is closer now, close enough that John can tell he doesn't know him, but he's determinedly following in the footsteps of the doctor, and so John stumbles on.

It feels like a lifetime before he sees the cold brick of the cottage, but it gives him a renewed energy, and his weary legs move quicker. He's calling for Samuel even before he's through the door.

'Samuel! I think we need to leave.' The words are his first for days, and his voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he hurries up the stairs and clears his throat as he grabs a bag from the top of the wardrobe.

'Samuel!'

John has thrown several jumpers in to the bag before the silence hits him. He stops, and lets go of the jumper he's been folding and listens. There is literally nothing, and the sense of unease, previously wiped out from adrenaline, is back full force.

Carefully, and quietly, John turns and walks to the bedroom across the hall. The door is slightly ajar, and when John pushes it opens, his gaze is drawn straight to the figure on the floor.

The door swings shut behind him as John crosses the room in three strides. He bends to check Samuel's pulse, but the carpet is darkened and spongy with blood and it's obvious the man is dead.

There are footsteps in the hall, shattering the silence, and John slowly rises to his feet as the door creaks open.

He knows who it is even before the figure steps into the room, and he can only think that these lonely months have all been nothing.

* * *

'Good morning, Johnny-boy.'

That voice has haunted John's nightmares for months, and even after all this time, it sends a horrifying shiver down his spine.

Moriarty hasn't changed; his hair is cut short, his suit is sharp and pressed and immaculate. He is calm and collected and sure of himself, and John _hates_ him for it. He hates him, because these past months have been filled with pain and loneliness; they've left John feeling empty, and it's been because of this man standing in front of him.

'How did you find me?'

John's words are harsh, and clipped, his body is tense, because the only way Moriarty can know where he is that John can think of is that something has happened to Sherlock or Mycroft, and for the first time in months, John is truly scared.

'Now, now John. No greeting? That's not very polite.'

Moriarty's words are mocking, his head is tilted to the side as he watches the doctor. He steps forward, and it takes all of John's self control to stay where he is.

Closer, John can see the insanity still ingrained behind Moriarty's eyes. There is nothing normal or sane or _decent_ that John can appeal to.

'They've been so very clever,' Moriarty murmurs as he steps closer still, 'to hide you from me for so long. But to think that you could stay hidden forever; a bit silly, don't you think John?'

Moriarty pauses, as if actually waiting for John to answer, and he frowns when there is nothing but silence.

'Come now, Doctor Watson. Can we not hold a polite conversation? We have so much to catch up on.'

'How did you find me?'

John repeats his question, and Moriarty pouts. It's a strange expression on the face of a madman, John thinks.

'I know that isn't really what you want to know.' Moriarty leans closer, his mouth against John's ear, his breath warm against his skin.

'What you want to know is how Sherlock and darling Mycroft are. What you want to know is what I've done to get to you.'

Moriarty tilts his head, and presses his mouth against John's neck.

'What you want to know, Doctor Watson, is what is going to happen to you now.'

John remains silent, heart hammering inside his chest, but his mind is remarkably calm, and his hand has lost the tremor that had found it's way back over the last few months. There is a cold, hard pressure against his stomach, and he looks down. Moriarty is pressing John's gun against his old wound, and it takes less than a second for John to figure it out.

His eyes flick to the body on the floor, and Moriarty smiles coldly.

'Very good, John. But not very nice of you, was it? Shooting poor Samuel there, when all he has done is take care of you.'

There's a sudden noise; the front door opens, and slams, there are footsteps up the stairs and along the hall, and for a moment John allows himself to hope. That hope is dashed the moment Moriarty pulls away from him with a last soft press of his lips to John's skin, and turns to welcome the newcomer.

'Mr Moran. So glad you could make it.'

The man who enters the room is both familiar and not, and it takes John a minute to work out why. He's the man from the hillside; the way he moves, fluid and graceful, cannot be mistaken, but there's more. He's a local man from the village down the hill - someone John has seen at the shop, someone he's spoken to - and John feels sick to his stomach.

Moriarty has known where he's been for weeks now, perhaps months, and to John, it's horrifying because there must be a _reason_ why Moriarty has made his move now.

John looks up to see Moriarty watching him, a look of sickening glee twisting his features.

'Not bad, John. You're quicker than I expected. Now, shall I let you in on a secret?'

Moriarty moves closer again.

'_There's no one coming to save you_.'

The words are whispered and quiet, but to John, they are screamed, and the world slows. He feels _everything;_ the rush of air as Moriarty steps backwards; the anger - hot and intense - that coils low in his stomach, and then the sudden emptiness.

Moriarty laughs. It's a high pitched, insane-sounding giggle, but it's muffled, as though John is hearing it through water. His legs turn weak and he stumbles backwards; back hitting the wall with a thud.

Moriarty tilts his head, watching him, suddenly deadly serious.

'I told you I would break you, John Watson.' He says quietly, and as if those words are a cue, the man, _Moran_, steps forward.

He's a large man, heavily muscled, and John doesn't even try to struggle. His legs feel like lead as he's dragged forward. Moran doesn't even hesitate before throwing John bodily down the stairs.

If he could think anything, John would think it was lucky that the ceiling is low, and the staircase is small because he won't break anything, but he can't. The breath is forced from his body in a rush, and he coughs; gasping for air, hands clutching his stomach.

Moran moves slowly, gracefully, down the stairs. He's followed by Moriarty who's watching everything with an impassive look on his face. Moran pulls John to his feet.

'I'm going to take you somewhere.' Moriarty says, picking up a coat that's draped over the bannister and pulling the door open.

They are the last words anyone says for a long while. John focuses on his feet as he's half pushed, half dragged across the harsh and freezing landscape. The sky has clouded over and the temperature has plummeted, and John's breath mists in front of him as he staggers forward. Sweat freezes on his skin, and he's shivering through his thin jumper and jeans, but John focuses on the passing rocks and trees, and he finally realises where he's being taken.

He's proven correct when they crest over a hill and the land drops suddenly and sharply away a few feet further on. John sucks in a harsh, freezing breath and clenches his fists. If he's going to die like this, then he isn't going without a fight.

'Throwing me off a cliff. Not very criminal mastermind, is it?'

The words are mocking, and Moriarty turns to him with an expression akin to approval on his face.

'That's better, John. For a moment I thought you were going to be no fun at all.'

He turns back to the cliff-face, and tilts his head.

'And here's the second part to my secret. There is no one coming to save you because, unless I am sorely mistaken, they're currently chasing shadows across Switzerland.'

There's a sharp stab of emotion; a curious, painful mix of relief and horror, because Moriarty's plan is so clear and plain and John could cry. Sherlock is ok, _Mycroft_ is ok, but John doesn't even want to think about what this is going to do to them.

Moriarty is speaking again, and John forces himself to listen.

'How do you think they'll feel, John?' the madman's voice is gleeful, and he's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

'Do you think they'll cry? Cry as they think of poor Doctor John Watson, abandoned for months, walking to the edge of the cliff and never stopping. Do you think they'll cry when they find your broken body at the bottom, twisted and bloody and pathetic?'

John is shaking now, and he pulls sharply in Moran's grip.

'They won't believe this. I would never…'

But John's voice trails off, because he knows that Moriarty knows; He's stood on the edge of this cliff before, one evening a month into his solitude when he was drunk and angry and so full of pain that it made his whole body _ache_. It was Samuel who pulled him back, who dragged him away.

And if Moriarty knows, then so do Sherlock and Mycroft.

For the first time, John _feels_ broken. Suicide. Mycroft will never forgive himself, and Sherlock will never understand why, and Moriarty will have won with one simple move.

There's a prod in his back, and John stumbles forward, inextricably closer to the sheer drop. He closes his eyes, trying to make his body limp because his brain is telling him that there is more chance of survival that way. He smiles bitterly though, because surviving this is not going to happen.

Another prod. Another stumble forward, and the rocks are crumbling under his feet. He braces himself, waiting for that final push, but it doesn't come. Instead, there's a sharp hiss of breath and John's eyes snap open.

He's no longer the focal point of Moriarty and Moran's attention, and as he twists his body around, he understands why. Casually striding forward is Sherlock Holmes; coat whipping behind him as he walks, and John thinks he might be the most beautiful sight in the world.

'Evening, Jim, Sebastian. John.' He calls, and John can barely contain the relief and elation he feels.

'You're late.' John calls back, voice shaking slightly, and Sherlock winks at him.

'Never, my dearest John.'

'Sherlock. What a…_pleasant_ surprise.' Moriarty's words sound clipped, and John realises it's the first time he's ever seen the man on edge. For once, Moriarty is watching his plans crumble around him, and the expression on his face is horrifyingly insane.

'Jim, Jim, Jim.' Sherlock mocks, shaking his head as he walks forward. 'You didn't think it would be that easy did you? I'm offended. As if we'd be that easily fooled…' He trails off, and pauses thoughtfully.

'Well, Mycroft maybe, but myself? _Really_, Jim?'

Moriarty makes a visible effort to slide back into control, and he rocks back on his heels.

'And where _is_ the older Holmes, Sherlock? Not too far away, I hope.'

He twirls John's gun casually around his finger, and John is suddenly very aware that Sherlock appears unarmed. The detective just smiles.

'Oh no, not too far at all. I believe Lestrade was just a little slow gathering the troops and he volunteered to speed things up a little. He should be here in ohh, lets say 4 minutes?'

John watches as anger twists Moriarty's features.

'Perfect. Just in time to watch his beloved doctor fall to his death.'

At his words, Moran takes a step closer to John, and Sherlock's face hardens.

'It is over, Jim.'

Moriarty laughs, that same high-pitched, insane giggle that sends shivers through John's body, and Sherlock's eyes flick briefly towards him. The months haven't taken away John's ability to read Sherlock's intentions in a single glance, and he knows exactly what the detective is going to do the moment before he does it.

There's a small moment of silence, then Sherlock moves. He's quick, and he takes Moriarty off guard, knocking him to the floor and sending John's gun spinning across the frozen ground.

It takes a moment before Moran makes his own move, but John is ready and he dives towards the gun. He's close, achingly so, and he stretches his fingers out to touch the cold metal, but there's a solid impact in his side as Moran crashes into him. His head cracks against rock, and for a moment he lies there, dazed and gasping, but Moran is off of him in a flash, and it's instinct that makes John grab his leg, sending the other man crashing to the ground.

In the background, John can hear muffled thuds and groans as Sherlock tries to subdue Moriarty, but all he can focus on is the sudden and familiar rush of adrenaline as he fights for his life. Scrambling to his feet, John makes another grab for his gun, only to be knocked sideways again as Moran takes advantage of the quite sizeable weight difference, and then he's suddenly sprawled on his back looking down the familiar barrel of his own weapon.

For a moment, there is absolutely silence in the frozen air, and then Moriarty laughs. He's bruised and bloody, and pinned under Sherlock, but the tables have once again turned, and the detective slowly pushes himself up to him feet.

Moriarty does too, dusting his suit down as he still laughs.

'Wonderful, Sherlock. And now after all of that pointless fun, you will watch John Watson die.'

Moran's finger tightens on the trigger and John sucks in a breath, but a painfully familiar voice cuts through the air and suddenly John can barely breathe. He twists his head, eyes wide and drinking in the sight of Mycroft Holmes walking towards them, umbrella swinging and what seems like the whole of Scotland Yard rushing after him.

Moriarty lets out a strangled, rage-filled cry as, finally, his plan crashes and burns.

'Fine. _Fine, Mycroft Holmes._ But live with the knowledge that this was your fault.'

And with that, he jumps at Sherlock. The world slows for a moment, and John lets out a horrified yell, but he can do nothing but watch as both men fall over the cliff edge.

'_NO!' _

John scrambles to his feet, barely aware of the policeman that disarms and drags Moran to the floor. He's at the edge of the cliff before he realises, on his hands and knees as he stares over the precipice, and a strange gurgling noise escapes his throat. He falls back, and covers his face with his hands as he begins to laugh.

Mycroft shoots him a worried look as he reaches the edge, but then his face relaxes and he smiles down into the irritated eyes of Sherlock Holmes as he clings to a narrow ledge a small way down the cliff face.

'A little help wouldn't go amiss.' The detective shouts up irritably, and Mycroft barely moves his hand to summon Lestrade to help before three policemen are there with rope and winches.

'Just hold on, Sherlock.' Mycroft calls down, and steps back from the edge before Sherlock's scathing reply can reach him. Instead, his eyes are now trained on John, who is still lying on the cold ground, hands covering his face, no longer laughing.

'John.' His voice is soft, and he takes a small step forward. He's tentative, as though he's approaching a skittish animal, and John thinks that maybe that's not too far from the truth as he takes his hands away from his face and watches the man above him.

'John, are you…'

'_Don't_.' John's voice is harsh as he interrupts Mycroft, and he pushes himself to his feet, never taking his eyes away from him.

'Don't pretend like you suddenly care how I am. You haven't cared at all for the last 3 months, why should now be any different?'

The words are flat and hard, and Mycroft flinches as though he's been struck, but for once John doesn't care as he presses his fingers to his temple in a vain attempt to halt the flashes of pain spiking from where he hit his head.

'John.' Mycroft's voice is pleading and he takes another step forward. 'I couldn't come, John. You know why. It was too dangerous, and he's been so close so many times. It has taken so much just to keep myself alive.'

At this, John raises his eyes and finally takes in Mycroft's ragged form; he's paler and thinner than the last time John saw him. There are tired-looking dark circles under his eyes, and he stands awkwardly, favouring one leg, and despite himself, John feels a jolt of concern.

'I nearly came here so many times, it was torture to know where you were and to not be able to even speak to you. And then he found you, and it took everything I had to not come straight to you. But it was our only chance to get to him. Please, John…'

The last two words are whispered, and Mycroft takes another step forward. John is vaguely aware in the background that Sherlock has been hauled back over the cliff edge, but then Mycroft steps again, and John can't bring himself to move away.

'I can't do this again.' John says finally, raising his eyes to meet Mycroft's, and the other man nods.

'Neither can I, John. But this is over now. It's finally over.'

And with those words, Mycroft closes the remaining distance and John is in his arms and the world falls back in to place.

* * *

They leave Sherlock and Lestrade to clean up the cliff face, and Mycroft bundles John towards the waiting 4x4. There are jumpers and socks and hot coffee waiting, and it doesn't take too long for John to warm up, wrapped as he is in Mycroft's arms.

The drive to the nearest town takes an hour, and not once does Mycroft let him go. The car comes to a stop outside a small house, and Anthea greets them at the door, an unusually welcoming smile firmly in place. They eat quickly; hot, filling soup and thick bread, barely taking their eyes off each other, and when John sips the last spoonful of soup from his bowl, he is pulled to his feet and up the stairs.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, John is pressed against it, Mycroft's mouth hot and demanding against his own. He pushes back, pulling Mycroft's body flush with his own and their touches are desperate: mapping and remembering skin with their fingers as clothes are pulled off and cast aside.

It's been far, far too long since John has felt this fire, and it burns him from the inside-out, dragging soft cries and moans from his mouth as they move and shift together.

Mycroft's fingers are long and buried deep within him, moving with a familiarity John thought he'd forgotten. Their movements are relentlessly desperate, hands never stopping, mouths sliding together. It doesn't last long - it was never going to - and their movements are frantic as Mycroft presses deeper into John's body.

John feels liquid fire burn through his veins as he comes, a wordless cry muffled against Mycroft's shoulder, eyes tightly closed as the feeling overwhelms him. Mycroft moves once, twice more, then he too stills, and the air is filled with their quiet gasps and clumsy kisses.

Even now, as Mycroft shifts his weight to the side, he doesn't let go of John, instead pressing his body along the curve of John's spine, and for the first time in months, John falls asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

Sherlock watches his brother and flatmate sleep from the doorway, his expression a curious mix of distaste, relief and concern. The past few months have been hard on everyone; he's seen his brother lose that familiar spark that drove him to distraction, and he's seen the effect it's had on John.

He steps back, letting the door close softly behind him, and heads towards the bedroom across the hall. His news can wait until the morning, worrying as it is, because he and Lestrade and the entire team of inept police searched for hours, only to find nothing.

Moriarty had vanished.

* * *

A/N: sorry took me so long to post the last chapter! Hoped you all liked it anyways :-)


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